He grabs his own throat, squeezes and squeezes. He peers into his eyes and sees horror in his bulging white eyeballs, his distending pupils. Then it’s her. The German girl. He feels her so deep within his chest, wrenching his distended heart, that he tightens his grip on her muffled screams just to make it all stop. This little German girl is no more than eleven and her long dark braided pigtails whip around as he suffocates her, clamping down, his knuckles gone all white. His mouth hangs open, but nothing comes out, like hers now, and his hot tears drop onto her dulling eyes as he hovers over her for leverage, pressing down, compressing, and his heart aches all the more. He can’t look at her. He peers around and all he can see is that cold, gray, bombed-out street in Cologne, the scene of his war crime. What could he do? She’d spotted him and his team and she was going to alert the street patrol, was going to give them away in their hiding place, and then they’d be surrounded, no way out . . .

Lett woke in his pup tent, wide awake. He heard rustling in the leaves, from afar, then closer. His head reared up. All was dark. He was all alone. It was a pup tent now, but he might as well be the only man in the forward foxhole, a human tripwire. The rustling came closer.

Attackers! Surprise raid!

He started sweating again, his chest hot, his blood pumping, but it was good. It was his steel and cables and gears and fresh oil.

He must alert the first line and the command post before he’s surrounded, but they didn’t string comm wire, didn’t give him a field phone. It’s all up to him.

He felt around in the dark, mechanically, fingered his M1 carbine and cradled it while he fastened his web belt holding his sheathed trench knife. He didn’t need his boots. They only made noise, soft ground or no.

He heard whispers. And footsteps now, boots along soft ground and grass.

Always keep moving. Stop and you’re cornered. Keep your eyes open.

He slipped out of his pup tent on all fours, his light M1 riding in the bends of his arms, sliding toward the sounds like a snake, his tongue even stretching out, tasting the air.

He followed the silhouettes in the night, and he could see in the pitch dark.

They’ve passed the first line and are heading for the command post.

There were three of them, crouching, with no gun barrels that he could see, but knives surely. They moved in a triangle pattern, fanning out but not too far, just enough space for him to strike and strike and strike.

He lunged.